


Through the Ashes

by Faerrow



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Trust, Romance, Royalty, Tragedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerrow/pseuds/Faerrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Until I can write a good summary, I'll say this: saving the world doesn't mean you get an easy go of the rest of your life. The Warden and her remaining companion, the king of Ferelden, Alistair, still exist in a world where suffering and tragedy are easy to come by, and very real. Every day she is still fighting with the memories of her loss, and is too headstrong to admit she feels this way--plus, she struggles with the ability to conceive and bear children for the throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell or High Water

**Author's Note:**

> This is documentation of what happens to my Grey Warden between the events of Origins and Inquisition. Due to the timeline, and the way I have envisioned her story, Awakening was not quite so impactful nor did my Grey Warden have anything to do with it. Considering her life at court, as well as her entanglements with nobility, she would not have had time to become the Commander of the Grey, thus providing another Warden with the chance.
> 
> This narrative will be painstakingly long, I assure you. It is my headcanon, running along the world I imagined would become the graphic novel I once intended to draw. However, my pen nib on my graphic tablet has worn down, and that has now been delayed.
> 
> I would appreciate any reasonable feedback or words of encouragement. I do not often share my work.

     The thunderhead of the oncoming storm quietly roiled above, veined with a cobalt and bridal white, struck hard against the pale blue of the sky. The beryl needles of the red-wooded conifers stirred, tousled at first by a gentle wind, which quickened to a bitter gale riding the surges of the weather. Below was the lashing of heavy steps through the red mud, as the percussive quartet of the horses crossed the breadth of the land; riding through the passage deep into the northern coastlands, and withal the moderate climate of the northern lands, the horses did not mind flying through the muddy roads.

     They pressed forward by command of their masters, leaping forth hard through the reeds and water of the marshland. Not a fortnight prior had the river broke its banks, and poured swells of its waters across the northerly ground.

     Two of the horses, standing seven hands to their withers, with coats of midnight, had been bred to ride through the tides of war, and would persist no matter the cost. The other two had been bred for more grandiose purpose, and had fur as though carved from the purest white marble, and though they were also destriers of proper pedigree, they were tasked with only one purpose: to carry the royals as far, and as fast, as required.

     It was not the King who quested deep into the north, but his fiancee that saw to return to her homeland with her royal bridegroom. She had first convinced his advisors that the king should pay his respects. Then she said, and he could quote it to any who asked, _verbatim_ \--"I would be shocked, your Majesty-- _shocked_ \--if you did not attend." This was, of course, boiled down to one possible translation: _you will certainly regret making the wrong decision._ Not that his advisors disagreed, necessarily, since he would be in the good graces of his most greatly honoured vassals: the teryn of the coastlands, the elder brother of his bride, would certainly appreciate the visit from the king.

     "We're nearly there," called the fiancee. She whisked back her cowl, bore her stark black hair to the wind. It lashed back, like snakes in striking coils. Her skin was pale, but rosy from the bite of the wind, lit by the cold storm's sun.

     The king admired her for many things, and could not deny her beauty--but also her strength, and her courage--she carried the entire world upon her shoulders, back from the brink. Yet she did not wear this burden on any part of her flesh, for it weighed upon her bleeding heart.

     The king rode with his reins in one hand, so that he might brush back his blonde hair, only when it needed to be fixed; a good king was not as such without a perky flip to his hair, he thought. "Ah, good then," he said, using a cynical voice, "I'm so excited to see this castle of yours."

     "Never been to Highever, Alistair?" she spoke, cradling a sort of curtness in her voice. Her family had been twined about the trailing laurels of the country's kings, and walked beyond the borders of the nation; hung the golden baubles of the Orlesian arts in their corridors, and spent their getaways at their lavish destinations. Particularly her father, who was once marked by a calm yet strong demeanour, and had a remarkable aptitude for political office.

     Alistair, the king, had not the privileged life of the high-seated lord's daughter, but wore a shaming mark of bastard: yet when the crown collapsed at the edge of the blighted world, without hesitation she raised him up. Wings ivory-laden suspended her in the moment that the nation cried for a saviour, and when she saw to sit a monarch on the throne, she knew it would be him. Then, being a woman of her bloodline, tact, and certainly wit, she asked that she might stand at his side--the queen consort.

     He looked unto her, saw her piercing eyes set upon him in return; he smiled. "No, but I wish I had," he winked. It would have brought them together sooner, he thought, but without the adversity that made him pine for her.

     Waters broke hard against the legs of the steeds, and splattered against them; running in ruddy beadlets down the contours of their chest, staining the coats of the marble white destriers. High had the water come over the road, as the land dipped low here, and the royal entourage dared yet to brave it. The lady Kyrie had dubbed her steed Brangwen, _the blessed raven_ , and all his strength and swiftness could not keep his purchase as he strode. Horror gripped the beast as he threw back his head, squealing madness as he was pulled under for a moment; and not for a moment did his master falter. She swung from his back, drawing the reins over his head, and pulled up on him gently. Brangwen coughed as he was guided back to being steady, the water cold against them both.

     "Sh-shush," she whispered. Her hand pressed against his neck. He heaved a sigh, mouthed his frothy lips, and leaned into her.

     "My lady," the senior knight dismounted, grabbing her by the waist. "Are you alright?" he swept her closer, nearly ignorant of the king's claim, though it was not unknown.

     "Ser Gwynn," the king called, waving his hand dismissively.

     The lady Kyrie turned up her head at the king. "He is no threat to you Alistair," she retorted before the man could entice trouble. "No one should be, your Majesty," she bowed her head, but she was mocking him.

     His face was brushed with a deep red, and he leaned back on his horse. "Yes, of course, dear."

     Her skin was like porcelain in the light, shining in the gloom of the oncoming storm; she turned her gaze to the dashing captain of guard--her lips pursing gently, and then curling to a rosy smile. Her bright blue eyes reflected her spirit, hot and spitting fire, not threatened by the pained glances of the king. She touched the knight's shoulder, light and noncommittal, and applied pressure to him. "I am fine, ser Gwynn," she said.

     "Of course, my lady," he said, offering her a flirtatious smile. His dark eyes flickered with interest, tempted by her unattainable allure; and by her birthright and her affiliation with the king, she might be called a princess--to him, he thought of her as such. It was her beauty.

     Alistair cocked a brow at the knight. "I know what you're thinking, but if you keep looking at her like that, we'll all drown in her ego," he said, smug.

     "Please don't be jealous, Alistair," she replied. "I did not risk my life just to listen to this."

     Alistair rubbed his neck and chuckled, "Of course not."

     She was of smaller stature than the men that accompanied her, but no slower to mount than the best of them; she swung over top the soft snowfleur leather, and shifted until she met a perfect balance. She swept back her hair, which had been soaked through by the swampy water, and gave a kinder look to her fiance. "You didn't, either," she said, drawing a finger slowly across her cheek. She had a fierce and soft face, marked by her brushes with war and by an impossible youthfulness, with the most beautiful black hair cascading in natural tousles. She had the most perfect, balanced smile, filled with the colour of cherries, and a set of proper white teeth. Her voice, of course, had the lilt of a songbird and was cut-glass, the mark of her noble pedigree, and could lull any child to sleep. "On our way, then?"

     Alistair smiled, seemingly agreeable. He grabbed her hand when he came close enough, and leaned to kiss her. She pulled away, giggling.

     The knight looked to the distance, eying the paling fog with a degree of apprehensive scrutiny. His dark eyes narrowed, his heart bumped with fervour, and he lifted a hand above his eyes to better focus. "Your Majesty, my lady," he said slowly, "there's something out there."

     The lady Kyrienne raised her hand to halt the party from moving any further. She pushed back on her stirrups, drew upon her pony, and began to pivot away. "Ser Gwynn, do not go any further," she warned.

     Gwynn was a man in his near thirties, older than the royal couple, but still marked by the impudence of his youth. He did not heed the words of the woman, and the black warhorse stormed forward. The mount grunted angrily, made nervous by the movement in the blackwater, and frighted by the sloshing beneath its feet. Gwynn revealed the blade he wore, and the leather strands trailing from the hilt, made ragged by age, swayed in the cool storm's gale.

     "Ser Gwynn!" she said, more forceful this time.

     As expected, the knight ignored her.

     She wrapped her fingers about the grip of her family's sword, heard the telltale ring of a hungry blade, and looked with a remarked indignance at the water. It had begun to swirl upward, sludgy water sliding off the scales of an armoured serpent: it gaped, displayed the hideous teeth lined in its jaws. A hissing cackle escaped its throat, spilled from the gullet of all hells, and meant to consume those it thought trespassers.

     "I've never seen that before," she remarked lackadaisically.

     Ser Cainan, the younger knight, spurred his horse before the royal couple.

     "You are not stupid, Ser Cainan," she called to him, "stand back."

     "My lady, I cannot," he said, "I will not fail either of you."

     Kyrie shaved a slice from the man with her glare, and then found redirection when the beast groaned and belched; she advanced with impudent haste, rushing the knight who dared defy her command. Apprehension caught the men as they cried for her, but she did not fear a creature that did not seem so deadly, for she had faced an ancient god made of blistering corruption. Her Brangwen, though not meant to wager his life on the field of war, trampled the water beneath him at his lady's urging; he was a creature of duty and respect, as was his breeding, and would not refuse command from her. She slid her red leather boots from the stirrups as she closed the gap, the water surging beneath her mount as she worked her way onto its back; she stood, brandishing her steel, and lunged as she drew close to the serpentine beast.

     Its coils thrashed violently through the water, loosening the mud that had caked into its black scales; her sword pierced its eye, plucked it like a punctured grape from its socket. It turned and hissed, blood running in thick, syrupy streamlets. It gaped, ensnared her legs as she passed it by, and drew her under the water quickly.

     Alistair had already closed the gap on foot, shouting for her as she sank, "Just like old times!" the king drew his father's blade and thrust it forward, but the scales of the snake brushed it aside.

     She emerged from the water gasping, and sent her blade at it again. "It's a good day!" she hollered over the snapping of its jaws. Its nose crashed against her breast plate, and it bit hard into her armour, splitting her maille off. "Oh!" she cried, and brought her blade against its head again.

     Alistair drew back his sword once, and jammed it deep into the empty socket of the water snake. It gave a single cry, and slumped into Kyrie's lap at last. "Cuddly fellow," the king remarked.

     The lady gave a curt look to either knight, who sat upon their mighty horses as if frozen in place. "Honestly, you have a conniption about protecting us, and don't do _anything_?"

     Cainan had hung his head, but Gwynn dared speak, "You seemed like you knew what you were doing, my lady."

     Alistair grabbed his fiancee by the waist, and looked her down studiously. "You tend to get this look that says, _'Stand back, your fearless leader is here!'_ " he said, rubbing mud from her cheek. "I think the best part is when you credit everyone, as if we did anything to help," he chuckled.

     "You did! It was probably going to kill me," she said in dismay. She lifted her hand to show her side, blood trickling down; an old wound that had been reopened in the fray, she noted, one where she had been worked over with a blighted sword. "But-"

     "It hurt you?" he asked, his voice warped by a tight throat.

     She frowned. "If we take much longer, Fergus will send men to look for us, Alistair."

     "My lady!" Gwynn dismounted swiftly, and reached for her, but was met by the cutting glance of the king.

     "You can ride with me, my dear," Alistair whispered to her. "We won't stop, but you shouldn't strain yourself," he covered the wound with his hand and pressed it gently.

     She winced, surprised by the pain. "Just a ruse to get me to sit with you and your prying hands, your Majesty," she said wryly, drawing a mischievous grin across her face.

     "My horse, ser Gwynn," the king called, hoisting his bride-to-be by her waist gingerly. "Pretty good trick then, yeah? You're falling for it, I can tell," his smile gleamed. Cautious was he, as if his fingers ran over clear and brittle glassware, he set her on his horse with little more than a grunt. He saw her piercing blue eyes bore hard into him, carefully questioning the nature of his noise: _does she think she's fat?_ Pride, in part, had him exclaim to many that he best understood the country's hero, yet often he could not see what churned in her mind. "I love you," he whispered to her, sitting behind her on the croup of his horse.

     "And I love you," she responded kindly, but her voice was sharp and her volume elevated. She conveyed no further thought as she nodded for them to continue on, grasping at the itching wound in her oblique.


	2. The Structure of Despair

     Between the tall willows and birch trees emerged a castle, stark against the paling sky. Strong, obstinate bulwarks ran long across its outside, affixed to its gatehouse by an imposing archway; such would funnel the enemy, siphon their forces should they press against the ramparts to break its hold. Grandiose peaks formed the rooftops, trimmed with intricate marble eaves, glimmering in the last light of the day. White blossoms on leafy vines formed curtains on the stony walls, slithering ever up toward the sun, delicate and full like roses. Leaded glass windows had been fitted into a depiction of the family's heraldry, ornate and coloured, placed as a centerpiece on the great hall's largest panes--precious jewelry.

     Tatterdemalion could it be called, for the crumbling walls lined with roughshod scaffolding. Scars on the granite where fire had once been, a ceiling of destruction, burning dread. Tragedy thinned the walls between the worlds of the living and the dead, and the wails of the fallen came through as lamentful whispers. Perhaps once there had been rage, a thick miasmic cloud brought by the blood and pain, but it had subsisted. Instead, there was great sorrow for their deaths, and an odd tranquility, for the family's eldest son had taken the lordship of the keep and its holdings.

     Kyrienne urged her destrier onto the stony archway, pressed her heels deep into his sides when he stepped with hesitance. "Can you smell the sea?" she asked, drawing in a mouthful of the salty air. The Waking Sea held the scent of its frothing surges, pouring it over the land, mixed with the sweetness of the woodland on its shores--fresh, like fresh oak buds and the perfume of lilac. She drew another breath, listened to the wakes break upon the shore. _Home_.

     "Denerim has that, too," Alistair said. "Is it really that different?"

     She offered him a pointed glare, looking down her nose at him, "Of course it is!" Though she had cherished the memory, worked it over until it had become shiny and smooth, and admittedly, the reality was comparatively drab. _Is this home?_ she wondered for a moment, caught the glimpses of blazing fear in the corner of her eye.

     Alistair saw grief on her face: saw it tauten her lips, wet her eyes. She possessed an inhuman stoicism nonetheless, providing her company with her straight and proper posture, staring ahead through her few tears. During their journey she neither spoke of her family, nor the tragedy that befell them, and only once demonstrated her anguish in his presence. He recalled how she slew the Amaranthine arl, Rendon Howe, gutted him knave to chin with nary a blink nor hesitation; and she shook with rage afterward, teeming with a poisonous hatred he had not known to be in her gentle heart. When he passed her chamber in the estate of his uncle that night, he heard her softly crying--but he did not enter. Somehow, he remembered, he sensed her desire for solitude--it was not in her nature to be prodded when she wept.

     "Do you need time?" he whispered to her.

     She did not reply, merely listened to the rhythmic beating of hooves upon the stone. She looked over the edge of the bridge, watched the sea as it washed over the shore, listened to it thrum. She breathed the air, counted the familiar cracks in the passage, looked over the weatherworn banners. "I am ready," she responded finally, as the ponies came to a halt before the gate.

     "Who goes?" dry and stern was the voice, which tumbled downward off the vine clad pillars.

     Gwynn bore the honour of announcing their arrival, with strangely dutiful pride. He cleared his throat gruffly, and began, "His Majesty the King, Alistair Theirin, accompanied by his consort, her Highness Kyrienne Cousland of Highever, princess of Ferelden."

     Styled unofficially by the people of the nation, she had become their beloved princess; her victory in their name bestowed her with their unequivocal devotion and love. She possessed a prestigious family name, an exquisite demeanour, and statuesque posture. _'Such are the qualities of a queen,'_ remarked the royal advisors.

     Nevertheless some would argue, whatever sublimity was grievously tarnished by her sword and masculine strength; how she presided over an impossible war with a party of no more than four, and a dog. Andras, she thought of him, _should not have left him alone_. He would be fine, of course, it was the nature of the Mabari to determinedly rule over its domain. She insisted to Alistair he be left, unrestricted in the palace, free to do as he please. This was met with somewhat expected resistance, for the dog's proclivity to drool and an unimaginable strength--she remarked, however, that the throne could not be in better hands-- _'You mean paws,'_ Alistair had corrected her.

     "Oh, oh!" called the voice above. "Open the gate! His Majesty arrives!"

     Loud was the heavy iron lattice gate as it broke its purchase. Plaited rope stiffened, chains clamoured, and when it reached the top, it was bolted on either side by a dark bronze latch. The four proceeded beyond the gate, stepping into a lavish courtyard, set with fountains and beautiful gardens. The stone walls were lined by well-manicured hedges of peony and hydrangea; these were neighbours to the watch alder and downy birch trees, which stood in a bed of petunias and delicate pink foxglove. Climbing roses wrapped around the trunk of each tree, and crept along the edges of the granite fountains, branching their emerald laurels along the bailey.

     Careful, she twisted in her saddle, drew her right leg over the haunches of her destrier, and slid downward until the tips of her toes reached the ground. A squire dutifully took the reins from her and took the garron away, leaving her to brush the grime and swamp muck from her trousers. She looked upward, pinching at the pleats of her red woolen chlamys, and correcting the orientation of her royal broach. At last she ran her fingers through the black locks of her hair, tying it hastily and tight into a sloppy bun at the back of her head.

     The lord of the keep appeared in casual dress, walking without an entourage of knights, as he insisted for many of the gatherings he attended. He wore an older doublet, dyed with the green and blue of Highever, buttoned with elegant golden pins; he was a handsome man, with dark bronze hair and heavy stubble on his chin. Fergus waved, and gently took the hands of his sister into his, kissing her gently on the cheek. "My darling little sister," he chimed, "how I missed you!" Before she could reply, he turned the gaze of his brown eyes to the king, lit with familiarity and love, "And your Majesty - my brother, I welcome you to Highever!" he swept Alistair into an affectionate, fraternal hug.

     "Thank you, Fergus," Alistair said, squeezing the man by the shoulders. "I'm glad to see you again, my brother," he beamed. Not a fortnight after the proposal of the Cousland girl and the king, Fergus had written him with a well-intentioned letter addressing him as royalty and a brother. Alistair had been so pleased

     "Thank you, my brother," Alistair said, holding the man close by the shoulders for a moment. "I'm glad I will have the chance to speak with you at length about my intended," he coyly grinned.

     Not a fortnight after the proposal of the Cousland girl and the king, Fergus had written him an eloquent and long-winded letter, wherein he was addressed as royalty and a brother. This newfound intimacy pleased Alistair to such an extent, he spent the following hour presenting the letter to any who would read it. Kyrie was the only one to read fully, understandable considering her meticulous being, but she also found great joy in her brother's approval. Alistair had waited a month or so for this moment, to address Fergus in person as his brother--he blushed, with a painful, permanent smile plastered on his face.

     "Fergus," Kyrie finally managed to greet him. "I've been away too long," she said, lowering her voice to avoid the king's reaction--but he listened well when he wished, and jabbed a playful thumb into her side when he realised what he had been said.

     "Is my palace not good enough for you, darling?" his words drew upward, layered by a frisky tone, falling into place with his wry grin and cocked brow.

     She replied as one might expect of her, rather thoughtfully. She rolled her eyes into a frustrated blink, followed by a sharp, disgusted exhale. No matter how purposefully he pushed her buttons, or annoyed her with his gibes, she loved him evermore - he was her source of joy. For this minute, however, she elected to ignore his mockery. "Forgive the king, Fergus, I'm sure he'll come to his senses," she coyly said.

     "Can you even say that about a king?" Alistair asked, wielding an upward inflection with wicked intention. "I'm pretty sure you can't do that," he said, "yes, I'm sure it's in there. It reads: no Cousland may ever speak ill of the king, _or else_."

     Kyrie looked crossly from the corner of her gaze. "Allow me to counter: no."

     "Not very imaginative," the king muttered, pursing his lips, pouty. He lowered his head, mocking in part, as if he were a child put to shame by his mother.

     "Would you honour me by supping with us?" Fergus managed to interject, gruffly clearing his throat. He fixed the lapel of his doublet, rocked nervously onto his heels back to his toes, "I would like for you both to meet someone," he said.

     "Oh?" she cooed. Her interest had been piqued, for her brother had not written a supporting cast into his letters before, although she had wondered if the lord intended to pick himself up. He had spent some time as a widower, dressed himself in a cloak of grief, and had not shown the slightest acknowledgement toward the notion of romance. She felt excitement boil in her heart, and a sudden strength in her arms--she would not, by any means, allow an unworthy woman to wed her brother.

     Fergus offered a shy smile. "Yes, come now," he said, stepping aside for the pair, arm extended toward the large double doors at the end of the bailey.

     "I do wonder _who_ this someone could possibly be," she said with a thin, needling voice. She wrapped her hands around the arm of her fiance, and crossed the yard with a demurrable step at the men's sides.

     "Or what," Fergus said, "you shouldn't leave out any option."

     This piqued the interest of Alistair, who canted his head, and grinned mischievously. "Ah, yes, I often thought I would have to marry a _what_ ," he said, chuckling.

     Perhaps it had been that she wore the dress of a man, and rode in their midst upon the fields of war, or that she had listened to closely to the ramblings of a drunkard; whatever the case, she skirted ahead of the men, pirouetted daintily, and said, "Or your hand." Her quip was followed closely by a shrill cackle, winding the path of her voice narrowly, until she once again fell silent with only a pointed glare.

     "Ouch," Alistair groaned, "why are you so mean?"

     Fergus shrugged, and placed a hand upon Alistair's shoulder. "She's quieted with age, actually," he excused her behaviour coyly.

     Servants drew hard upon the door's handles, the iron hinges squealed as the heavy oak door swung open for them. A warm light streamed through the large-paned reticulated windows, pooling onto the granite floor of the atrium. The household staff immediately presented themselves for their lord and his company, happily had they awaited the arrival of the King and his princess, their favoured daughter. Pleasant murmurs rose from the crowd when they saw their king and his bride-to-be, with one of the maids--that the lady Kyrienne had known since she was a girl--hopping excitedly when she saw her.

     "Oh, I always knew she would do great things!" Kyrie heard someone say. "It's no surprise _she_ would marry a king," came the voice of another.

     "Please, I know you are all honoured to meet the king, and welcome my sister back to her ancestral home, but it is impolite to speak before the King," Fergus said firmly. His smile never faded, however, and he was as warm, and welcoming, as he always was.

     "No, it's alright, Fergus," Alistair said, blushing hotly. "I'm really just -- one of the guys." He shot a look to Kyrie, a knowing glance, having quoted her from one of the first moments of their meeting.

     Kyrie scanned the room quietly, not feeling comfortable to speak. Many of these people she had simply abandoned the night she fled Highever, trapped in Duncan's grasp. How they could possibly forgive her, she thought, was far beyond any worldly knowledge she could ever hope to obtain. She stepped back, her knees aching suddenly, every muscle sore.

     Alistair grabbed her hand, squeezed her gently. He did not look back her, but managed to keep his eyes turned forward on the crowd before them. "It is truly an honour to meet all of you, though," he said, "and your Lady Cousland is glad to have returned."

     The crowd responded in quiet celebration, with admiring coos in awe of their new king. Some of the women clasped their hands together, and the men smiled widely with great admiration for the lion's mettle of their lady.

     Kyrienne studiously surveyed them yet again; she felt as though she had seen an apparition standing among them, but only for a moment. She sucked in a mouthful of cold air when she glanced his weathered countenance standing in a veil of shadow, as though he wished not to call attention upon himself. "No," she whispered under her breath, her voice sharp and faltering. He stared directly at her, looked unto her with a hard stare, unempathetic; he whisked back his shaggy auburn hair, and turned away from her.

     "Come, this is not everyone," Fergus said cheerfully, and invited them further into his abode.

 

     The teryn's parlour had been reconstructed well, refurbished with red stained wood and freshly lain stone. The once-ramshackle hearth had been rebuilt and updated, with carvings of twisting laurels of the Cousland heraldry in the wood, on a mantle of Orlesian limestone. The fire thrummed and crackled, blazed a hot gold, waited on tenderly by an attendant.

     The company, the rightful king and his bride-to-be, sat gingerly on the edge of their chairs, across from the teryn, himself. Fergus clasped his hands together, and shifted into a rigid, nervous posture, "I know you were probably not expecting the castle to be so broken," he said. His gaze turned upward as he carefully planned his words, forgetting everything he had previous rehearsed in his bedroom earlier in the morn.

     She cast a wary glance at the door; she worried that her knights pressed their prying ears to the walls, tempted by the royal gossip of her loss. She swallowed a hard pit in her throat, and agreed, quiet, "I understand," she paused, "but I should have come a long time ago."

     "I'm not so sure," her brother admitted freely. "Howe-he-he broke Highever's spirit," he said, wistful. "I've not had the time or sovereigns to pay for a proper restoration, not the one it deserves," he paused. "The banns have been helpful, providing additional men and services, offering sovereigns here and there," he said, "Father would not exactly be pleased to accept their charity, if he were here."

     "He would be pleased to know you've done everything that you can, Fergus," she said.

     Fergus frowned. "I know," he said, cold. "There are no remains to provide a proper funeral, for any of the people we lost that day," he said. "I am glad you are still here, Sister. Losing you, too, would have been too much."

     She did not reply. She wondered if he had yet lost her, for she was not cut from the same cloth as the girl that had left Highever on that day. Her eyes drew slowly to Alistair, a questioning glance, seeking guidance or comfort. Her mouth turned down involuntarily, and she bridled her frustration and grief, despite the biting pain. "So many terrible things happened here," she said.

     "And we needn't think of any of them, neither Mother nor Father would want that for us," he said. "They'd ask that we only remember when we have to, to honour their sacrifices and their lives."

     He was right. She clasped her fingers, resting her wrists on the table. "There was a person you wanted us to meet?"

     "Ah, yes," Fergus said, and gestured to his steward to bring in his mystery company. "I'm afraid you won't be able to until later tonight, while we sup," he said, "but there is someone else who asked to meet with you, specifically, Kyrie."

     She swallowed hard, blinked stupidly at him. "Who?" she began reluctantly.

     He entered the room with a cold air. Loud and lumbering was his gait, for he lacked a leg up to his knee where it had been sawn off; he used a crutch made just for him. His eyes were broken mirrors, and his skin was hard and calloused, scarred a thousand times over. He looked unto her, his square jaw grisled with ginger stubble, and his careful, calculating eyes lingering on her body a moment too long. "My lady," he said, his voice low.

     "Ser Gilmore," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry, for everything," she stammered, rising from her seat. "I didn't know - or - I - I . . ." her voice tapered abruptly.

     He caught her in his arms, embracing her with his hand planted firmly at the back of her head. "No, it's okay, girl," he said, "we followed the Maker to our fates."

     "N-n-no," she mewled, burying her face into his chest. "The Maker did not have to do this to you, he did not," she said through grit teeth. The soft dove held sadness in her cobalt coloured eyes, and was flushed with a rosiness on her delicate-featured face, which screwed up into a sour expression. Her eyes pinched shut for a moment, her lips drawn tight against her teeth. "No," she exhaled stiffly, and broke from his clutches, thrusting herself backward across the hardwood floor. "My apologies, I must go to bed," she said, gripping the wound in her side. _It still burns_ , she frowned, _why does everything hurt so?_ Hastily she fled the parlour, refusing to be excused by the any of the men she was with.

     She found herself in her old room, gripping the Orlesian styled duvet ferociously. She buried her face into her downy pillows, shrieking until her throat was raw. _Stupid, stupid girl,_ she told herself, _just a little girl!_ How could she have let her heart blaze freely?

     "I love you," his honeyed voice pervaded the air, filled with his native accent and gentle nature. "You do know that, don't you?" he asked her.

     She met his compassion with a shuddering sob. She wondered if it was his love and devotion to her that worsened her mood, had her blubbering pathetically into her pillow. She was certain it had soaked through, as she wiped her tears with the sleeve of her Cousland-blue cotton blouse. "I don't understand," she whimpered.

     He sat next to her, tenderly rubbing her back in slow circles. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, you know," he said quietly. "You're just one person, you don't need to be a hero all the time," he said.

     "I do _not_."

     Alistair chuckled, "Oh, please. I watch you try every day, so don't even start."

     "Did the Maker divine this path for me? _Why_ me?" she asked him, looking up. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face felt puffy; she felt incredibly ugly, but he smiled lovingly at her, and her worry melted promptly.

     He shook his head, "I guess it could have been an elf, dwarf--maybe even a blood mage." He grinned dumbly at her.

     "Not helping," she frowned.

     "It had to be you," he said, plain. "Kyrie Cousland, Hero of Ferelden," he said boldly, drawing his hands before him in an exaggerated gesture. "Maker knows everyone's heard that name," he said. "She was exactly where they needed her, exactly when she needed to be there," he said. "You know, they say she banded a bastard, an apostate, assassin, chantry girl, and a drunk together--oh, and a giant scary Qunari-- _wooww_. She really has done it all."

     She scoffed, "And Wynne."

     "Ah, yes, my favouritest mage ever," he said.

     She was smiling, "And she had a mabari."

     "Oh, the big drooling war hound, can't forget him," he rubbed her cheek gently with his hand. "Which we left at home, in my palace, probably drooling up the place, and terrifying the servant girls."

     "Servant girls? Why are you so worried about them?" she asked playfully, giggling a little bit as she did. She swept back her black hair with both hands, tucking it neatly behind her ears. "I'll have their heads if you're not careful," she threatened, staring him down with her doey eyes.

     "Their heads? I think you mean _mine_." Her ran his calloused fingers down her neck, pulled down her blouse by the neckline, and stroked her collarbone with a feathery touch; he leaned toward her, set her lower lip between his, and kissed her.

     Daintily she flit away, balanced on her fragile wingtips, coated in her butterfly dust; she closed her eyes, refused to look, and choked when she tried to breathe. "I cannot," she said, forcing the words out. "I cannot pretend that all this did not happen," her voice was strangled, her mouth pulled into a severe frown, lips tight against her teeth. "I left my family and friends here to die, and-look at Ser Gilmore."

     "I saw," Alistair said, frowning.

     "I should have done more."


End file.
